


Bloom

by magikspell



Series: In Bloom [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Love, M/M, No Angst, PWP, Teenlock, Tickling, Trans Character, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikspell/pseuds/magikspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They'll kiss, and they'll touch, and they'll make each other <i>ache</i> with pleasure, but this-- this is <b>something</b>, isn't it?</i>
</p><p>Unilock/Late-Teenlock, slice-of-life fic in which John and Sherlock are silly and in love. Contains afab-transgender Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> _i. Sherlock's experiences and feelings about his body are not meant to reflect the experiences and feelings of all transmen._  
>   
>  _ii. Warning for a depiction of an injection. If this is triggering for you, skip the first four paragraphs. In addition, there is an insinuation of top-related discomfort, but it is extremely brief and is not made a focus._  
>     
> Though not required, it's a good idea to be at least somewhat familiar with Minnie Riperton's "Lovin' You." You'll see what I mean. Listen [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLMYcqBmiX8).
> 
> I've also linked some songs as they are mentioned in the fic. Again, you don't have to, but listening to them will help you create mental images.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> [PS: You can find me on Tumblr [here](http://221bee.tumblr.com). xo]

_syringe, needle, vastus lateralis, **penetration** \--_

" _Careful_!" Sherlock scolds, screwing up his face at John, who has a red plastic cap clamped between his teeth and a thumb poised over the syringe plunger. The fingers of his right hand gently massage the small, soft curve of fat on the inside of Sherlock's thigh, relaxing, calming, loving.

"Deep breath," John says, moving those rubbing fingers to muscle. He aspirates the needle, checking for blood at the injection site, before slowly pressing down on the plunger.

The muscle under John's right hand tenses involuntarily, Sherlock holding himself stiff and gnawing at his bottom lip, still uncomfortable after only three weeks of this. It lasts but a moment, though, and then his body goes slack as John removes the needle and applies cotton wool to the spot of welling blood. 

He kisses Sherlock's fingers, which apply pressure to the cotton, and stands to dispose of the syringe and needle.

...

When John returns ten minutes later, it's with a muffin on a plate, one held in his mouth, and a plastic bottle of milk clutched under his arm.

"Eat," he says, a stuffed-mouth-muffle, and sets his loot down on the side-table by Sherlock, who's sat cross-legged and trouserless on the bed, dressed only in grey briefs and a vest. The racerback of a black sports bra is just visible at the nape of his neck. Perched on his bare, fuzzy knee is an iPhone into which he's inputting data concerning his weekly Depo- injection.

"Not hungry," he responds in a bored tone, swiping his finger to the left.

John sighs, unamused, and removes the muffin from his mouth less a large bite. "You should eat."

"What for? I ate just yesterday."

"Most mortals do require food in order to function, you know," John deadpans whilst chewing, having a seat beside Sherlock. He watches him input his height and weight--5'9", 9 stone--and casually places the muffin on Sherlock's other knee. "Preferably multiple times each day. They taught us these things at school."

" _Hmm_. Did they?" He's already distracted. Sherlock takes the snack, tosses it aimlessly off the side of the bed, and drops backwards, stretching out on his back. A stack of miscellaneous uni textbooks topples to the floor, disturbed by Sherlock's careless flop.

"My sex drive has increased," he says blandly, as if discussing the weather. He's got his iPhone held in the air above his face, and he makes another swipe with his finger.

"It has, has it?" John's ears turn pink. He takes another bite of his muffin and chews slowly.

Sherlock shrugs. "No major physical developments, otherwise."

"I reckon you're hairier," John says, reaching out to run a hand up his boyfriend's left leg. He sets down his half-eaten muffin and uses his free hand to work a tickling index finger into the crease of Sherlock's armpit, which is soft and furry, damp with the sweat of the day. 

Sherlock squirms at the tickle, wriggling his hips and shoulders against the mattress.

"Ah!" John exclaims, grinning. "Ticklish, are we?" He digs his index and middle fingers into the soft skin of Sherlock's armpit, stroking uncontrollable laughter out of the body beneath him.

Sherlock huffs, pressing his arm as tightly to his side as possible in attempts to thwart the tickling, but John simply drags his hand down, places the other on Sherlock's hip, and begins again at the stretch of skin over ribs, on a soft expanse of clothed belly.

"Stop that!" Sherlock manages, a puff of air between the " _huh-uh-uh_ s" of laughter. "Stop!" He twists away, trying to free himself from John's relentless tickles, and is somehow able to grab him by the forearms, fingers forming white pressure-spots on John's skin.

John's smiling at him, eyes gleaming with so much mischief and affection that Sherlock almost regrets taking him by the torso and, with two great body-heaves, twisting and rolling on top.

John _ooof_ s and wraps an arm around Sherlock's back, using his left hand to manoeuvre his legs so as to avoid the inevitable surge of ball-smash pain caused by a bony knee.

"You're ticklish," he says again, softly this time, shifting a bit and allowing Sherlock to sit up and straddle his lap. 

John places his palms on Sherlock's thighs and strokes up and down, mindful of two yellowing bruises and a small lime green plaster.

Sherlock shrugs and places his palms on the tops of John's hands, rubbing once, twice. "Stop it," he whispers, leaning down, slowly, slowly. 

He presses a kiss to John's lips, just a gentle peck, and grips the hands beneath his, feeling skin roughened from years of outdoor sport.

Those hands slide free, slowly working themselves around, skimming Sherlock's waist and landing on his bottom.

Sherlock smiles against John's lips and tilts his head to the side, going in for a true liplock, a sweet, damp kiss with slotted lips and sighs and John's fingers pressing against soft, plushy flesh covered by cotton. 

"The sex drive thing," John murmurs, middle finger slipping between Sherlock's legs from behind and stroking just once, right over a warm, concave space, before sliding back to flirt with Sherlock's arse. He breathes out his mouth, a puff of hot air against rosy skin. "Was that a hint?"

Sherlock presses his palms against either side of John's head and angles him, dropping down to lick hot, wet kisses to the spot under his ear, where sweat collects during rugby practise and dries after, leaving a salty-sweet residue. 

"Good, John," he confirms in a barely-audible muffle.

" _Mm_." John smiles through skin-prickling shivers at the feel of a tongue-filled kiss to his throat. "I'm getting better." 

It's facetious, and Sherlock knows it, and he's so, so happy. He smushes his palms to John's cheeks and gives him a sloppy smear of lips across his mouth.

"You gots _the tingles_ ," John flirts against Sherlock's philtrum, bubbles of laughter in his throat. "Do I make you _horrrny_?"

That never fails to make Sherlock blush furiously, and John loves it. He loves it _so_. He rubs at Sherlock's bum and presses up into a kiss, and he laughs and laughs, breathy pants of laughter, when Sherlock rolls his eyes but whispers, "Impossibly," like it's a secret that sexual arousal happens to even him.

His mouth is wet and tastes faintly of tea, and John places sucking kisses there, turning his head from side to side, pinching soft lips between his own, feeling the warm, slick heat of a tongue, and oh, he _wants_.

...

Long moments later, John slides his hands from Sherlock's arse and grips at his bony hips, gently pressing until he's got him sat up once more, his face flushed from kissing. 

He's beautiful, painfully so, all pink and warm. His curls, usually tame, are finger-raked wild, twisted and tangled from having only been washed and left to air-dry. John smiles at him because he can't help it, can't help the little bubble that bursts in his chest when he looks flirtatiously into the eyes of the wonderful, incredible human being he _loves_.

Sherlock gasps slightly when he sees it--the love there, the flush and the squeeze of fingers at his hipbones and John's teeth coming out to bite his swollen bottom lip.

They'll kiss, and they'll touch, and they'll make each other _ache_ with pleasure, but this-- this is _something_ , isn't it? 

...

John bends his knees so Sherlock can lean back and places his palms at his soft inner thighs, stroking, massaging, and with the faintest of pressures moving his legs apart.

He's a little wet, already, a dark patch appearing in the crotch of his grey pants when John rubs at him, just holds onto his thigh with one hand and uses the other to stroke, fingertips passing over cotton in circular motions, feeling the sponginess beneath.

Sherlock breathes through his mouth but isn't vocal; he rarely is during sex. He watches John's face and huffs quietly, cheeks pink.

"You make _me_ horny," John teases, grinning when Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment and bites back a smile. "I gots the tingles."

Sherlock laughs, a little burst he can't hold in, and pinches the skin at John's side. "Shut up." He straightens his face and pants, just once. "Your dirty talk's appalling." 

"Really, now?" John keeps up the rubbing, using mostly his thumb, pressing a bit harder, going a bit faster, huffing himself as he feels Sherlock grow wetter, as the thigh under his palm clenches briefly.

Sherlock sighs and wriggles his hips. "Uh." He swallows. "Yes. Just, uh--"

"Just, uh?" John laughs, hooking a finger inside the damp crotch area of Sherlock's pants and pushing the fabric to the side. He strokes gently, now, at bare anatomy, as Sherlock's always sensitive when stimulated directly.

Sherlock gasps. "Just shut up."

"Charming."

"Shut _up_."

"Give my mouth something to do, then," John whispers, pulling his arms back so he can push up on his elbows. Sherlock groans, frustrated, and sinks down onto him, chest-to-chest. 

He kisses him _desperately_.

...

They get their tops off in a rush, twisting apart in order to strip. Sherlock's vest gets tangled up on his head, and John smiles and kisses him, taking the body-warm, white bundle and plucking it away.

"Look at you," John murmurs, watching Sherlock stretch out on his back, all lean lines, torso flat and pale with bumps of hipbones poking out above his pants and slight outlines of ribs visible on every inhale. 

The crotch of his pants is dark with spread wetness; John slips fingers beneath the fabric and tugs down, leaning in to kiss at Sherlock's belly, right at his navel, as he works the pants down his thighs.

"This okay?" John asks [ _always_ ], settling onto his belly between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock taps him on the bum with his heel, a confirmation. "Thank you."

[For asking.]

John nods.

He gently spreads Sherlock open with his thumbs and presses a single, sucking kiss to swollen flesh. "Thank _you_ ," he whispers, a muffle, licking deep, tongue stroking every bit of him, between slick folds, over all his tingly pink parts, the parts that make Sherlock sigh, make him grasp fistfuls of bedsheet and curl his toes.

John slips a hand under himself, down the waistband of his blue training shorts, into his boxers, and slowly masturbates as he sucks and licks.

Sherlock grows wetter as he's stimulated, as John rubs closed lips against the most sensitive bit of him, massaging, before breathing hot breath against him and sucking once, twice--hard sucks that cause Sherlock to bury a hand in John's hair and press down rhythmically.

John pulls his hand from his boxers and uses it to stroke Sherlock, applying his middle finger and rubbing in circles at a consistent speed, a speed meant to get him there, to amp him up, make him sweat. 

Sherlock crumples, thighs shaking, spine arching, and squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes out in heavy pants.

"Oh," he says, running his hands across his own quivering belly. " _Oh_ , fff--"

John exchanges his middle finger for his thumb and rubs faster, a bit rougher, leaning in to touch his tongue to sticky-wet folds.

He feels Sherlock's hand back on his head, pressing down hard this time, pulling him in, so he goes with it, pushing tongue and lips to flesh, sucking, kissing, moving his thumb more quickly in erratic, up, down, and around motions.

Sherlock chokes out a series of "uh, _uh_ " noises, throaty grunts, and breathes in high-pitched gasps, wheezes almost, as John brings him to the edge.

John feels it all kick off, feels the tremor at his opening, the quick squeeze, followed by the five hard pulses of orgasm contractions.

Sherlock holds his breath following the first little tremor, his short, airy, " _uh_ " cut off mid-vocalisation. As one hand grips the bedsheet in a white-knuckled hold, the other presses even harder at the back of John's head, pulling him in and against. 

When the pulses begin, Sherlock pushes up, feet flat against the mattress, back arched, and murmurs, "Oh, fff--; oh, God, Johh-- _uuuh_." He gasps for air, a loud, high whine of a gasp from pleasure-stiff breath-holding, and bites his shorn nails into John's scalp for a brief, tense moment.

He wheezes properly once it's over, once his body quiets, the surges of pleasure dropping off to tingles, to little thumping feelings as his nerves settle.

"John," he huffs, pulling John's hand away with a shiver and tugging it up, desperately, clasping it against his chest, where his heart thumps away beneath spandex.

John grins, so smug, and rubs his lips against the smooth skin of Sherlock's thigh, both in a kiss and a covert mouth-wipe. He makes his way back up Sherlock's body, presses lips to every bit of skin he can reach, lingering on freckles, on moles, on the little bumps of ribs below the band of Sherlock's bra. 

"John," Sherlock says again, like a revelation. His lips are upturned, cheeks are pink with pleasure, with an endorphin-rush that makes him warm and sleepy, pliant and sweet to kiss.

John taps their lips together once, twice, and slides a hand into Sherlock's hair, gently rubbing at his scalp and tangling dark curls round his fingers.

"Mm, you're lovely," he murmurs, a breath against Sherlock's ridiculous cupid's bow.

Sherlock sighs, pleased and happy, and drags his mouth up to capture John's in a tender, squeaking, suck of a kiss.

John loves him soft and open, wet and warm and flushed all over. He tastes his tongue, breathes into and against the corner of his nose, and _aches_ for him as they kiss for long moments--as John works Sherlock up again, bringing him from the sleepy cocoon of post-orgasmic haze to sliding a hand down the front of John's shorts, pressing his palm against him, and dragging upward in a slow, deep caress.

John chuckles when Sherlock shoves him off and over, helps him stretch out flat on his back, and immediately presses his open mouth to the thin trail of golden hair below his navel. Within seconds, long, thin fingers are hooked in the elastic waistbands of his shorts and boxers, are tugging them downward in a single jerk.

"Not complaining," John laughs, sliding both hands into Sherlock's hair and stroking across his scalp, "but--" 

He gasps when the hot shock of a mouth engulfs him, slipping nearly all the way down until the head of his cock meets muscular resistance, and then slurping all the way back up in a long, wet, warm-pleasing- _Jeeeesus_ suck. 

The sounds are _obscene_.

"Bit--" John swallows, a gulp. "Impatient."

"Would you prefer that I go more slowly?" Sherlock asks, voice husky and nothing but a grumbly press against the furry crease at John's thigh.

John laughs, and Sherlock laughs, and it's beautiful, isn't it? This _thing_ they share.

"Because I can, you know." Sherlock drags his tongue slowly--so, so slowly--along John's glans, right where the foreskin has drawn back, right where a thin drip of precome shines in the overhead light. He presses a closed-mouth kiss there, pulls back with a string of wetness on his lips, and John _sighs_.

Sherlock smirks. "As slooowly as you like."

"Tease." John rubs at Sherlock's scalp and presses, just a gentle suggestion that Sherlock heeds with a knowing smirk, _smug as ever_ , grasping John about the hips and mouthing downward.

...

John exhales, a shaky, shaky thing, several moments later when Sherlock gives him one last sloppy suck and draws back, sliding up to press his nose to his soft belly [with the tiniest bit of pudge he simply can't seem to shake].

"Get a condom," Sherlock murmurs, touching a quick kiss to the skin above John's navel.

John scrambles backwards, sliding his bum against the mattress and stretching his arm towards the bedside table drawer, which he opens with a swift tug. "Vibe, too?" he asks, blindly taking out a condom packet and the black lipstick vibrator Sherlock favours.

Sherlock hums and rolls over onto his back, manoeuvring around until he's lying as if to sleep, head pillowed and arms stretched comfortably over his head, knuckles just touching the top of the mattress by the headboard. He flexes his toes and watches John slide on the condom. 

"Spread 'em," John says in a silly American accent once the condom is on. He walks on his knees up to Sherlock and playfully drops down on top of him and between the V of his legs, bracing himself with his hands on either side of his torso. He presses a loud, smacking kiss to his cheek.

Sherlock scowls at him as if annoyed but takes him by the back of the head, anyway, pressing and tilting until they're properly kissing, sweet, smiling kisses broken by nose-brushes and deep breaths as John reaches down and takes himself in hand. 

He bites at Sherlock's bottom lip as he slides inside and murmurs, " _God_ , you're lovely; you're so, so--" as he thrusts, pressing into the warm, wet, clenching body and withdrawing, pressing in and withdrawing, dragging lips across Sherlock's face and whining when Sherlock huffs little voiced pleasure-bursts of heated breath.

Sometimes Sherlock removes his bra during sex, usually when he's on his back and his small breasts appear nearly completely flat due to gravity; sometimes he doesn't. This time, Sherlock pulls up the front of the bra so it's still technically on but bunched under his armpits. 

John swoops down and gently kisses his nipples, careful just to kiss, not to cup or squeeze, not to hold or suck. He loves Sherlock with lip-presses and licks that make him sigh, make him clench and close his eyes, chasing that faint tingle in the base of his spine whenever John thrusts in.

" _God_ , Sherlock," John groans, pushing up with his arms so he's hovering over him, so he can thrust harder, more quickly. Sherlock's biting his bottom lip, breathing in quick little pants out his nose, and screwing up his face in pleasure whenever John's inward presses are particularly good. He's beautiful, so beautiful, and it _kills_ John, that beauty--kills him in the best of ways, in the way that makes him flush all over, that makes him moan and sweat and have to think vaguely of his great aunt Charlotte to help him last longer than a handful of erratic thrusts.

Sherlock grabs blindly for the vibrator and switches it on, dialing it up to a high speed, the one that allows him the hardest orgasms. He's wheezing when he moves his hand down between them and holds the rounded head of the vibrator to himself.

It's a quiet vibe, nearly silent, but John can feel it inside. It's but a dull vibration, a constant tremor against his cock, but it's enough to nearly send him over the edge. He huffs, arms shaking, spine tingling, and thrusts harder, determined to get Sherlock there first.

"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss sloppily at Sherlock's mouth. " _Oooh_ , come--" He breaks off with a sharp, punctuated, " _uh_."

He feels Sherlock's hand move between them as he rubs the vibrator against himself in circular jerks of motion.

"Come on," John repeats, just a breath, dropping his forehead to Sherlock's and _mmmmm_ ing into his face.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut until they're nothing but crinkles. He shrieks out an, " _ahh_ fuckfuckfuck," all one word, all one breath, all panicked-like, hand moving faster.

"Love you," John says, wheezing now, himself, and twisting his hips in a circular motion. " _Oh_ , Iloveyou. _Mm_."

Without warning, Sherlock hooks a leg around John's arse and pulls him in harder, causing John's wobbly arms to nearly give out.

"I'm--" Sherlock whines, face scrunching up with the beginnings of intense pleasure. "Oh, my G--"

He jerks, a full-body spasm accompanied by a sharp inhale, and suddenly, John's cock is being squeezed over and over as Sherlock comes.

The vibrator's high setting has made the orgasm nearly violent, relatively short but _hard_ , a burst of pleasure that John watches shoot like pain across Sherlock's face.

" _Oooh_ fuck," Sherlock gasps, sobbing, working the vibrator faster and faster before jerking it away the moment his orgasm begins to fade, when intense stimulation turns to sudden discomfort.

John keeps up his hard thrusts, nearly there, now, pushing Sherlock through the last of his orgasm and the beginnings of his own. 

Vibrator gone and extra space no longer needed, John drops down flush to Sherlock's body, cradling him in his arms and touching his skin, fingers dragging through warm sweat as he thrusts erratically, unevenly, feeling orgasm building within him like a cresting wave.

"John," Sherlock breathes, pressing a hand to his lower back and rubbing, encouraging. " _Oh_ , that's it. _Right_ \--" He gasps again, a spike of sensitivity, and digs his nails into John's skin.

That little bite, the pinch of the barest sliver of nail pressing into him, is all it takes. With three more thrusts, he breaks, groaning as his orgasm overtakes him.

He shakes all throughout it, hips still but limbs trembling, and fills the condom with a shiver and a drunken, " _Ooh_ , you're amazing. _Ooh_ , God."

...

No matter how many times they've done it, the after-sex is always awkward, always a bit embarrassing--lying mashed together all sticky and sweaty, remembering those _noises_ , the vulnerability, the intimacy of getting naked, of watching each other come, of loving in the most physical way possible.

They giggle, still, through little kisses, feeling naughty and lovely and wonderful. 

"[Loooovin' yooou](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLMYcqBmiX8) is easy 'cause you're beautiful," John sings sillily against Sherlock's face, voice all high-pitched and purposely off-key.

"Oh, no," Sherlock says, making to twist away. "None of that."

"Makin' love with yooou is all I wanna do!"

"Shut up."

"Lalalalala, lalalala--"

Sherlock fastens a hand over John's mouth. "You are exactly zero per cent amusing."

John licks the palm of Sherlock's hand, which is surprisingly repulsive considering the fact that they had just finished exchanging a variety of bodily fluids. Sherlock pulls his hand away with a grimace and wipes the saliva on the bedsheet.

" _Ahhhhhhhhhh_!" John croaks loudly, the worst impression of a whistle-note Sherlock has ever heard. "I have it on good authority that I am exactly one hundred per cent _high-larious_."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns onto his back but doesn't at all protest when John snuggles in close and kisses his armpit.

"I love you terribly, Sherlock Holmes," John says, as if it's a comment on the colour of the wall paint.

Sherlock quirks a bit of a smile and "allows" John to take his hand and lace their fingers together.

John's iPod Touch is under his pillow, shoved there the night before after they had listened to a true crime podcast before bed, and Sherlock pulls it out with his free hand and slips in an earbud. He hands John the other.

"No weird post-rock," John murmurs, inserting his earbud and watching Sherlock scroll through their shared Spotify account. 

Sherlock looks positively insulted. "My post-rock is not _weird_."

"Everything you listen to is either completely bizarre or depressing as fuck. Or violins."

"You like violins."

John shrugs and squeezes Sherlock's fingers between his own. "I like you, and I like you playing the violin. There's a difference."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, suspicious, and then turns back to the iPod. He scrolls through some more, as if settled on a song, and taps his finger to the screen.

 _Violins_.

John gives him a look.

"'Spring,'" Sherlock says, shifting a bit to get comfortable. 

It's [Max Richter's "Vivaldi Recomposed,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRl4zxqn4mo) and it's actually very beautiful to John, who rubs his thumb against Sherlock's and listens.

"Stay with me while we grow old, and we can live each daaay in the springtime," John whispers, still sillily, sing-songy and off-key, but this time not just to annoy.

Sherlock sighs but doesn't complain.

...

"You make me feel like that," he says later, very quietly, once the song has ended and he's put on some [Efterklang](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2t4r2qZ-Asg).

John squeezes their fingers together. "Hm? Like what?"

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder as if embarrassed, a small child making a nervous admission. His eyes follow the scrolling artist and album title on the Spotify player. 

"Spring," he finally says through a slow exhale. His cheeks go adorably pink.

John presses a kiss to Sherlock's chest, right over his heart. "You git," he says affectionately, _so_ , so affectionately, and snuggles in closer.

A moment later, he smiles. "That was sweet, you know."

Sherlock scoffs, as if disgusted, and puts on The Smiths.

"You make me feel like that, too." John continues seriously, turning so he can watch Sherlock's face. "Like spring." He smiles. "Violins and all."

John's told him he loves him many times, has said it so softly, so seriously, staring him right in the face and holding his hand. From the redness of Sherlock's cheeks, from the upturned corners of his mouth, it seems this admission has affected him even more than the most blatant of declarations. 

Sherlock leans in and presses a gentle kiss to John's lips.

"Lalalalala, lalalalala, lalalalala _la la la la la_ ," John sings, right against Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock shoves him over and climbs on top of him, meaning to playfully smother but actually being rather sexy. John grabs at his bum and nibbles his neck.

"You're impossible," Sherlock murmurs, sitting up, and he looks just so cute like that, all flushed and mostly naked and wearing a petulant expression that's only for show.

John smiles and replies, "You're wonderful." It's flirtatious and purposely cheesy and one hundred per cent true.

Annoyed look still in place, Sherlock drops down and kisses the tip of his nose.

John loves him. He loves him _so_.

 _"Ahhhhhhhhhhh_!"


End file.
